Red Bucket
by Iwilo
Summary: His lower lip pushed up in the center, making a shallow arc as it pressed his upper one. His smile was a small frown, a subtle rainbow between developing tusks...


Warning: This story contains non-consensual sexual acts. Please don't read this if you can't handle it. If you are looking for erotica, this isn't what you're seeking. I'm a big fan of erotica. I've written some of the most fucked up stuff out there, under a separate pen name. But THIS IS NOT erotica. If someone happens to find it hot, that's fine. No two people read a story the same. I highly doubt anyone is going to find this to be adequate paw-off material, so please do consider yourself warned. There are also NO females present in this story. Sharing my writing is important to me. Please don't read my stories and then report me. I haven't hurt you.

Hi, Reader. Please read this before you skip down. Love you all for reading and commenting and letting me share. I hate to do spoilers. I NEVER do spoilers, but that was necessary. I don't want to traumatize people or dig up shitty memories without warning first. I also never share my own interpretation of my writing, because I want the reader to think for themselves before they hear what I have to say, but this time I've made an exception.

This story is about relating. The reader relating to the characters; all of them. It's about feeling. Go feel. Tell me your thoughts. Thanks.

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It was warm out.

The spindly, pubescent troll leaned to the left to keep from dragging his burden in the sand or toppling over; a tin bucket, painted red on the outside and half-filled with water and live minnow, making the sparse muscles in his right arm tense painfully. Modest waves tumbled and clamored over dead and dying horseshoe crabs to his right. The beach was littered with them during this season. The bamboo rod that danced in the bony grip of his left hand pointed at the heads of the palm trees that could be spied over tall white sand dunes.

Thick, bare feet marked the sand with two-toed tracks that were shallow. He would see his footprints on the return trip; note with quiet displeasure that they reminded him of a bird's; a rather large bird, but still a bird.

A brown linen shirt, sleeveless, thin and formless, covered the near-skeletal upper half of the young male's frame. If the cloudless sky and the early, shimmering heat were any portent, it would not be a day for shirts. Still, young Vol didn't venture out shirtless.

Vol was well aware that he was so bony that he appeared ill. He felt his own ribs when he would lie down to sleep and it wasn't pleasant. He could imagine the way his spine must look - Like a murloc's. He was skeletal and his cheeks were sunken. His brow made him look angrier than other trolls and his blue skin was too pale. His hair was green. This was not unheard of, but it wasn't as common as the dark indigo so many other trolls had. He wanted blue hair. Instead, the short, thick dreadlocks that sprung from his head in every direction except up were deep emerald. Vol jostled the bucket to save his arm from spasm. The water jumped and spun and he watched the minnow wiggle in the spinning current. The pole in his left hand bounced.

His eyes did not match. A troll's eyes were always red. Naturally, his left one was. Unfortunately, his right one was not. The iris was a very pale gray; so pale that it was only visible under bright light. Most who beheld him saw a troll whose right eye had no iris; was only white with a pupil. Many assumed or wondered if he was blind. A blind troll was unheard of, but so, of course, was a troll with such a defect.

The gray eye was colorblind. He could see muted shades, as if it were dim out when it was light… it wasn't the same though, because things didn't appear to be dark when he covered his red eye. It wasn't the colors, but the difference in hue. Everything he beheld with his gray eye was nearly gray if he didn't pay close attention. But he saw textures better. The only colors that he could not differentiate at all were red and green. Being as reclusive as he was, he had plenty of time to compare vision between both eyes. He could see things others couldn't see. Camouflage didn't trick Vol's gray eye.

Vol had headaches. Bad headaches. He would lie on one side or the other, cover each eye in turn with his arm until his head stopped aching. Waking was awful. He fell asleep with his eyes closed but they always opened. They would be dry and he wouldn't be able to see well out of either one. He would have to soak them in cool water. It had nothing to do with their color. He wished his hair was blue.

The skeletal young troll looked at his minnow bucket again as he stopped to switch it to his left arm. He lowered the bucket and fishing pole to the ground first; stood with his arms limp at his side. Vol closed his eyes. His right arm rose slowly in the air, the brain remembering to lift though the bucket was on the ground. His lower lip pushed up in the center, making a shallow arc as it pressed his upper one. His smile was a small frown, a subtle rainbow between developing tusks.

His arm fell and he bent to regard the little fish with his mismatched gaze. Perhaps he could dump out some water. Skinny hands rested on bony knees as the troll watched the baitfish swim round and round. He bent to scratch at his ankle and the fish tapped against the side frantically before settling into their steadily endless circles.

Better not to. They might die or get dumped out. Vol stood and shaded his eyes against the sun as he looked ahead. He was most of the way there. Then he could sit and be lazy. Maybe carrying a bucket would make him grow a muscle. Or die. Either way he won.

Grabbing the bucket with his left hand, he gathered his pole and plodded on; staggering at first because his left arm was even weaker than the right. Maybe he would shave his head. If he grew a muscle, he'd carry a bucket every day and dye his hair dark blue. Then he'd get an earring.

His arm was nearly ripping off when he made it to the natural wall of boulders. He'd had to switch to his right arm again, and dump out just a little water. He'd carry a heavier bucket when he had some muscles. He'd carry a stupid barrel in each arm. And one strapped to his shaved head. Panting, he lowered his pole to the sand and began making his way through the tall, stinging-reedy grass that separated the rocks from the drop ahead. He needed a hand free so that he wouldn't fall. He would come back for the pole.

The line of boulders made a finger that ended in the water. He didn't swim. On the other side, he knew there would be a drop. More sand below. Here, he would walk to the water and fish near the rocks. It was the best place he knew, and nobody ever came here. Nobody liked climbing over rocks and through grass that stung. He didn't have a boat, nor did he want to go out where it was deep and he might fall in. Others had boats. He caught plenty of fish right here. Maybe he would take his shirt off.

The wind blew through the high grass, stinging his legs and shoulders and making his thin, faded red shorts billow around his withered looking legs. His knees looked big, as did his ankles. He truly did look to be ill or dying.

The green, many-armed starfish of his dreadlocks barely rose above the dry beach grass as he emerged at the top of the stones. It had stormed a few days before and the ground between the stones was still muddy. Going down the bank would be difficult. Maybe he should turn back. He looked down and the wind stopped; the shush, shush dying down.

It was replaced by another sound.

Quiet voices, male, young. He couldn't place them but was sure he knew them. Something in Vol's gut told him to go away. He agreed with his gut, but first he would look. Wondering, after all, was one of the worst tortures of all. He had to see what was so special that it had brought the other boys over the rocks and burning reeds to his quiet, boring place. If for nothing else, he needed to ascertain if he should seek out a new pastime.

Clutching a fistful of the deeply rooted reeds in his left hand, he held the bucket in his right and leaned out, turning his body to the left so he could see…

There were eight of them; boys his age and a bit older. All of them were naked. They were not just shirtless. They were naked. They sat in a circle on the sand and held their erections as they stroked idly and spoke in conversational tones.

Trolls were a sexual race; notoriously so. While such things as circle-jerks weren't openly discussed among the adults, they were an accepted part of adolescent curiosity and should an adult have spied such a thing, they'd have bowed out quickly and quietly and gone about their business as though nothing were amiss. In other words, what the young males thought of as a very secret and dangerous ritual wasn't a taboo creation, unique to and beginning and ending with them. But the fact that they didn't know that made it all the more dangerous and exciting.

Vol watched in color and in gray. His mind stopped as his bucket swung and his pale blue knuckles clutched whitely around the reeds. He didn't blink. One of the boys was facing him and looked up. Their eyes met. That was when Vol's foot slipped in the mud.

For a brief moment that seemed to last forever, he dangled by his left arm, clutching the reed for his life. He slid and his palm bled but he didn't release his grip. Had he let go of the bucket, he may have been able to climb away, he weighed so little. He was too afraid to think. The reed slipped out of his hand, a grating cry escaping him as he watched the bloody tip of it spring back from his fist.

Feet pounded across the sand, panting voices crying out. He heard his name. Of course they knew his name. He was a freak, an oddity. Everyone knew his name. He slid down the bank on his front, his naturally coarse voice cut off by the mud as the front of him connected with the slippery brown earth wetly. He was gliding. And then he stopped, the mud giving way to sand beneath his toes.

He laid there, facedown and holding his breath. Maybe they would think he was dead and leave him. Hands were on him, lifting him. He was made of sticks, could feel his bony legs and the insides of his elbows were their hands were. He was insubstantial. If he was very still, they would think him dead and toss him in the ocean where he would drown or learn to swim and go away.

When they lifted him, his eyes opened and to the far right he saw his gray bucket, which he knew would appear red if he could see with his left eye, rolling from side to side, the minnow flopping on the sand and some dying, stuck to the mud. A blob of mud fell from his face to the sand and it was real. Whatever was happening was very real and he could not play dead any longer. Vol began to shake his head. "No... No… No… No… No..." He was shaking his head, making mud fall off his face as he was carried further from the water, to the place they'd been sitting. His breath came in pants and on each exhale his buzzing voice said one word, "No." Still, they carried him.

"Vol, shut up." Someone said. He continued to shake his head. No more mud fell. He began to struggle, his arms and legs kicking and flailing. Though he struggled with all his might, he was as nothing to them. One of them could have swung him about like a little girl's toy dancing ribbon. He was doomed. "No... No... No… No... No..." He struggled and panted and stared at the sand and the sandy feet and the big, deep and overlapping footprints below his panicked gaze.

Someone commented on the way he was moving and there was laughter. He didn't stop, "No… No... No... No... No..." They were talking but he wasn't listening. He was waving his arms in their grasp. He was kicking his legs and chanting his new mantra.

Then he was being lowered to the ground. He knelt with his head down and there was silence. He looked up at the others that surrounded him. "Take your pants off," the tallest of the boys commanded. He said it quietly, but he might just has well have roared the words. Vol's heart clenched within his skinny chest. He was not a part of this game. He was the ball. He was a toy. "Please," he rasped. Dicks were pointing at him. Arms, not yet adult arms but muscular and thick enough to snap his in two, were folded on chests or hanging limp at sides as they waited. All crimson eyes were on him. He could feel the ones that he could not see.

Vol lowered his head; his eyes looked at the feet, the sand. He was little. Tiny. He was very fast. His head remained down as his hands twitched on his folded thighs and his eyes slid to the left. Skinny legs unfolded as he sprung from the sand, but they were ready and thick fingers twisted into his hair. He cried out, not because of the pain in his scalp but because he twisted his ankle trying to wrench free.

They were all over him then, and his cheek was pushed against the dry sand as his shorts were tugged down and away. The hand that held his hair didn't let go and other hands held his wrists out to the sides. Then his legs were being bent in. His ass was being lifted and his ankles held apart. His ankle hurt.

"No," he didn't say. He continued to think it, somewhere in the middle of his dazed mind, but his more immediate thought was, "What?" He didn't say that either. He thought about his shirt and was glad that they left it on him.

Something was pressed against his anus. It brushed up and down there, slightly wet. It pushed against him and when he screamed someone shoved a thick clump of sandy seaweed into his mouth, quickly muffling his cry. After a few perplexed comments and some spitting sounds, he was pressed against once more. This time it didn't stop. Vol didn't scream this time. He merely chewed the seaweed, the sand gritty against his teeth, and tried to focus on the crash of the waves, wished they were closer.

He was moved around a bit and there was a lot of pain as the boy using him made room in him, pressing until he was all the way in. If Vol could be said to have luck, it lay in the fact that balls developed faster than dicks. Big balls slapped him as a skinny dick invaded him, made him bleed. He didn't feel lucky and it didn't feel small. He chewed the seaweed.

His guts clenched, and he tried to bear down. That seemed to incite the boy to go faster. He dug his claws painfully into Vol's sides as his movements became spastic, his thrusts turning upward and the change in angle renewing the already unbearable discomfort. The hand in his hair let go and he stared at the blue knees of the boy who knelt in the sand closest him, doubtless watching what was being done.

And then his guts were being pulled and there was a wet sucking sound and he could feel his ass opening and closing as the boy pulled out. Could feel the emptiness and the air on him. Could feel dripping. His blood, he thought. Trolls didn't bleed to death. Too bad. He blinked and stopped chewing. Could he go now?

Another male took his place behind Vol. He didn't look to see, but he knew it was a different male. He knew he couldn't go, but he'd asked in his mind because hope was an idiot and hope did such things. He began to chew his seaweed again and wished for more. The seaweed was dry on the outside, rubbery; the inside had salty juice. He swallowed and sand scratched his throat. He coughed with his mouth closed and it made him squeeze and that hurt, made it burn worse. The boy behind him gave a joyous cry and then they were all laughing and talking excitedly.

The process went on and it was just boys having fun. Harmless teasing as they curiously took pleasure from this strange other one. He didn't cry or fight. He was compliant and chewed seaweed like some kind of goat. He coughed from time to time and whoever was in him when it happened was lucky. There was no malice in it, for them. They were pre-adults and what they did was for the sake of amusement and driven by hormones and pack mentality.

Vol was mortified. Confusion had worn off. He had a dick and he was not stupid. His gut also told him that this was not the way things were done. He knew exactly what he was being used for and he knew they didn't do this with each other. Never had he known such humiliation. Had they beaten him; had they cursed him and kicked him, it would have been less unbearable. The atmosphere of this… was jovial. They were excited. They talked to each other. They chuckled. They commented on how nice he felt. He wasn't sure if it would be worse if they spoke to him, but they didn't. They spoke _about_ him.

The last one held his elbow and his shoulder and pulled him upright on his knees. He dropped his seaweed. The others were watching in awe. They wished they had thought of trying that. His eyes, which had been staring all the while, closed. He was silent.

This one was the eldest, and the largest. It still hurt. It was worse this way; his face exposed. His seaweed; gone. He was afraid his eyes would open of their own accord and not close. His face burned. It burned hotter when he felt his erection brush the fabric of his shirt. This did not feel good and he did not want this. It was only a physical reaction to something inside. It was an unpleasant erection. He wrenched free the arm that the boy had pinned against his back and covered his meager genitals with both hands.

The others were already exclaiming excitedly over this new shame. He knew that if they touched him there he would scream.

They didn't. After it was finished, the boy lifted him off his lap and deposited him on the sand with surprising care. This upset him more, for some reason. He knelt there; legs splayed, eyes closed. There were quiet sounds as the others brushed the sand off, dressed themselves in their shorts and pants. No shirts for them.

Then they were in front of him again. He didn't see them. He felt them, heard them shifting. "I want to see his eyes. He always looks away." Vol clenched his fists in his lap. A voice, right in front of him. "Vol." Breath that smelled vaguely of spicy jerky, "Vol, open your eyes."

If he didn't open them, they would help him. He opened his eyes. They were there, all of them, squatting with their pants and shorts on as they stared at his eyes. They stared as if they weren't eyes and he wasn't looking back. One of them shook his head, "Wild." He blinked. They stared. He looked down.

"No, wait. Wait." Vol looked up at the speaker, the eldest boy. He blinked mutely. His fists opened up on his lap and his claws dug into his own bare legs, though not enough to draw blood. "Turn your head, like here. Tilt it." The boy reached out and guided Vol's chin so that he faced up and to the left, his face lit fully by the sun. "Turn your eyes to me."

Vol obediently turned his eyes toward the boy. They all leaned in to look. "Wild," the other boy repeated, shaking his head again. "Wow," another chimed in. "See he got a iris in the dead eye. It's like gray." He guided Vol's chin back to him and they all watched his iris disappear in the shadow as he guided his head the other way.

Then he faced his head forward. "I can see it now!" "Yeah me too! Shit on Loa!" They all snickered guiltily at the sacrilege. "It really dead, Vol?" They watched him with breathless expectation. He didn't know. He shrugged his thin shoulders.

"Is it blind?" Vol swallowed and shook his head. He didn't speak or make any sound, but then the tears began to fall. Big and slow. They stood out in his eyes and then slid down his gaunt cheeks to land on his knees and the sand before him.

The boys looked around at each other and rose. They didn't speak or laugh. The game was over. They walked away without another word, though after they'd climbed the bank he heard their conversation pick up and fade into the distance.

Vol stood slowly. He pulled his red shorts on, looking down at the mud that coated the front of them and his shirt. His eyes happened on the chewed seaweed and he squeezed them shut until he passed it. His bucket still lay on its side and he realized he'd been listening to it bump against a rock each time the wind blew.

The short, skinny troll gathered the dead minnows from the mud and dropped them in his red-painted tin bucket. He used the rocks that jutted out of the bank to climb up and retrieve his bamboo pole. He limped to the water on his swollen ankle and he splashed his face, shirt, knees and shorts, removing the mud as best he could.

Then he fished.

Epilogue: Vol grew muscles.

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Author's note: Vol's my new guy, born recently of a random rp with io9 and Smachitpower from Deviant Art. The knew nothing of this scene. They suffer through my snap-created characters. He was an adult in our RP, but he sent me this image later.

**Color blindness** can't occur in one eye. I won't sit and bore you with the details, but I don't want to go around spreading stupid like Snapple caps. Vol is talking to me a lot the past couple days since we've met. ;)

~ Yah Pal, Wil


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